


the pain is what you make it

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, F/M, Post-Episode: s03e09 Closure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5383556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma is ready to be done with this day. Unfortunately, the day isn't quite ready to be done with her.</p>
<p>[What happens after the portal closes in 3.09]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the pain is what you make it

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself that the next thing I posted would be lighter. It is not. But it's not MY fault; the episode totally started it. Also I failed a final last night so really, you should be blaming my Principles of Federal Income Taxation professor. Who could write a fluffy fic after _that_?
> 
> I'm behind on comment replies because I'm the worst. Sorry! Also I wasn't gonna post this today because there's an ep tonight, but I decided getting it up before it gets Jossed was worth the effort.
> 
> Title is from Nine Lashes' _Anthem of the Lonely_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma is ready to be done with this day.

Unfortunately, it appears that the day isn’t quite ready to be done with her, because the portal has no sooner closed than two of the HYDRA agents milling about in the corners open fire on the rest.

She doesn’t even have time to be shocked by it; a strong hand on her back forces her to the ground and is promptly replaced by its owner’s chest as he physically shields her from the gunfire. He’s shooting, too; or at least she thinks he is, by how loud—how _close_ —some of the gunshots are. She can’t really look to check.

And she doesn’t care. Compared to the discomfort she’s suffering, danger seems a middling thing. Her hands are still tied behind her back, leaving her shoulders screaming from hours spent in the same strained position, and crouching like this isn’t at all helping the mass of pain that is her torso. And to top it all off, the awful chasm of hopelessness and despair that opened in the pit of her stomach when the torture started hasn’t closed one bit…which is fair, as she’s fairly certain the torture hasn’t _ended_ yet.

Maybe it never will.

The gunfire, on the other hand, dies down very quickly. All told, it’s probably not even a full minute before the man sheltering her is moving away and pulling her to her feet.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asks, giving her a quick, clinical once-over.

No, she bloody isn’t, but she’s not about to admit that to _him_ , of all people.

“I know you,” she says instead. She doesn’t know his name, but she’s seen him before—more than once, even, and never in pleasant circumstances. “You work for—for Ward.”

Even after all this time, she still chokes on his surname. One would really think today, of all things, would have cured her of that, but apparently not.

“We all do,” the blonde woman who started the shooting pipes up. “You know. In case you were wondering.”

_That_ is not what she’s wondering.

“You’re all HYDRA,” Jemma says, voice thick with disgust (and pain, but there’s no reason to let _them_ know that). She takes in the bullet-ridden corpses scattered around the room, lingering on Malick and his torture-happy telekinetic friend. The vicious satisfaction that wells up in her chest is probably inappropriate…but it’s been a long day. “And so were they. You people really aren’t capable of loyalty at all, are you?”

“We’re loyal to the Director,” the third shooter says helpfully, apparently unoffended by her disdain. “This guy?” He kicks Malick’s corpse. “Tried to screw him over. We don’t hold with that shit.”

“There’s only one HYDRA these days,” her protector—to use the term very, very lightly—says. “His isn’t it.”

And Ward’s, presumably, is. “I don’t believe your _director_ got that memo.”

He went through the portal, after all—off with Fitz for a quick jaunt through her worst nightmare. (She wonders if they’ll find Will there, or if _It_ will get to them first.) Surely that was at Malick’s urging; why else would Ward care about a distant planet?

“Sure he did,” the blonde says, stepping daintily over a body on her way around the room. “Don’t worry; the Director knows what he’s doing. Hey, Markham, you got a knife?”

In answer, the man beside Jemma draws one out of nowhere. “Where’s yours?”

“Lost it in one of the grunts on the way in,” the woman answers, accepting the knife with a smile. “And before you say anything, Ortilla, he absolutely had it coming.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the third shooter says. “That’s what you always say.”

“Because it’s always _true_ ,” the woman insists, even as she cuts through the zip tie around Jemma’s wrists.

Pain shoots through her as her arms, finally free from being trapped behind her, fall limply to her sides. It takes her a moment to regain control of her own body; between just how long she’s been restrained and the burning in her shoulders, her limbs really don’t feel like hers.

Tentatively, she rolls her shoulders, hoping to ease the strain and encourage her blood to resume its normal flow, but all she manages is to send fire along her nerves—and despite her best efforts, the cry she attempts to hold back escapes her as a choked gasp.

…Which is unfortunate in more ways than one, because the sudden inhalation _doubles_ the pain in her ribs, and when she lifts a hand automatically (multiplying the agony in her shoulders, naturally) to press against them, she manages to brush against one of the burns on her side.

Even through her shirt and the bandaging beneath, the pain is unbearable. Her vision whites out, and the next thing she knows she’s on the ground, the blonde woman knelt beside her, making worried noises.

“Are you broken?” she asks bluntly—a sharp contrast to the gentle fingers she uses to brush Jemma’s hair away from where it’s been stuck to her sweat-dampened temples for who knows how long. “The Director is _not_ gonna be happy if you’re broken.”

Jemma laughs.

It hurts—oh, God, does it hurt—but she can’t help it. Hysterical peals of laughter just spill out of her, the only possible response (save tears) to such an absurd statement.

She believed it, once. She didn’t think she did—how many times has she told herself, over the years, that Grant’s affection was a lie? That his claims that he would never hurt her, that he would kill anyone who tried, were nothing but nonsense, pretty words meant to soothe the sting of his countless, unforgivable crimes?

She’s laughed in his face for it, for thinking that promising not to hurt _her_ did anything to alleviate the undeniable truth of the people he _had_ hurt—innocent civilians, people she knew, people she _loved_.

But it wasn’t until today that she realized that some part of her truly did believe him. Some foolish, naïve, absolutely _stupid_ part of her honestly trusted him not to hurt her, took to heart the vows he swore in that soft, earnest tone.

(The same soft, earnest tone he used to apologize as he wrapped her torso in bandages and pulled her shirt back down to cover them—so sweetly tending the very wounds he inflicted. And then, _then_ , he had the nerve to wipe away her tears and kiss her and say he’d make it right. As if he were a prince who had swooped in to rescue her, rather than the monster she needed to escape.)

She _must_ have believed his promise. The moment he proved himself a liar wouldn’t have been even a fraction as painful if she hadn’t—because that first jolt of electricity was nothing to the shattering of some integral _something_ , hidden so deep inside her that she hadn’t even realized it was still there.

No man who loves her could do that. No man who loves her—who has _ever_ loved her—could pick up the cattle prod at all, let alone apply it to her skin, and Grant did so much more than that.

He held it there. He didn’t just shock her with it, he left it there long enough to sear her skin. To _burn_ her.

And then he did it again. And again. And again.

He only stopped because Fitz broke. The same hands that smoothed salve over her burns—salve he had _waiting_ , because he came _prepared_ , because he _knew_ when he walked into that room what he was going to do—might still be hurting her this very second, if only her best friend had been able to withstand the sound of her screaming.

So she laughs, because if nothing else, today has conclusively proven that Grant couldn’t care less about Jemma being broken.

“Uh oh,” Ortilla says, squatting down to peer at her with what might be fascination. “Maybe she really is broken. Dibs on _not_ telling Ward.”

“It’s his bloody fault,” she tries to tell him, but she’s too breathless to be understood.

That or they’re simply ignoring her. Always a possibility.

“She’s in shock,” Markham counters. “And no one’s gonna be telling the Director anything if we don’t get that portal back open.”

“No kidding,” the still-unnamed woman agrees, patting Jemma’s back a little tentatively. “Deep breaths, honey, that’s it. You’re fine.”

“Honey?” Ortilla echoes skeptically.

“What else am I supposed to call her? Mrs. Director?” the woman snaps.

“We’re not married,” Jemma tells her knees. Once again, she’s ignored.

“Don’t start,” Markham warns. “Ortilla, get Capshaw in here—see if she can make sense of this.”

By _this_ , he clearly means the machines ringing the room, the ones that operate the portal, and the last of Jemma’s laughter is successfully quashed as she processes the implications of that.

They’re going to open it again, to fetch Fitz and Ward back.

If she’s very, very lucky, they’ll be accompanied by Will. If she’s very, very not, they’ll be accompanied by _It_.

Of course, if she were very, very lucky she wouldn’t currently be in excruciating pain, now would she?

“On it,” Ortilla says, and then he’s gone.

“Aldridge, take Doctor Simmons to the medics— _our_ medics. Keep an eye out for the others; they’ll be scrambling, with SHIELD on its way.”

“You got it,” she says, and hauls Jemma to her feet. “Come on, then. We’ll get you a nice sedative, how does that sound?”

If she’s sedated now, there’s no telling what she’ll wake up to. She might find herself in SHIELD’s care or still in HYDRA’s custody or even in the company of _It_.

“Horrible,” Jemma says.

Aldridge beams like she’s made a joke. “Great! This way.”

There’s not enough fight left in Jemma to keep from following.

(There _is_ , however, enough that she makes note of the pen the doctor she’s led to tucks into the pocket of his coat—and enough that she’s able to convincingly, if painfully, fake a stumble at precisely the right moment to snatch it without his notice.

A pen is a poor weapon, but she’s made do with far less.)


End file.
